


absence makes the heart grow fonder

by redskiesandsailboats



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, Archery, M/M, No trauma, Probably ooc, Reunions, Yes you read that right, aftg, i know nothing about archery im sorry, obviously, only friendship and happiness, pure fluff, some light robbing, the disney version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26077600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redskiesandsailboats/pseuds/redskiesandsailboats
Summary: “Robin,” he says, and she looks up at him. “I need your name.”“Not this again,” Robin groans.“It worked wonderfully last time.”“No, last time, you lost me twenty pence and all of the respect of the Blackberry Inn owner.”“Nonsense.”“Neil,” Dan says, “You’ll get caught.”“I might.”“Neil.”“Escaping has always been my specialty. I’ll be fine.”“I’ll be back up,” Matt offers, and Dan glares at him.(Or, the one in which Neil is Robin Hood, Matt is Little John, Nicky is the King of all of England, and Andrew is neither a maiden, nor a damsel, but he is slightly distressed, and it's Neil's fault because Neil is very distressing at all points in time.)
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 25
Kudos: 182





	absence makes the heart grow fonder

“Whoa, Neil!” Robin yells, and Neil turns around, his voluminous velvet gown clutched to his chest like a compromised maiden, to find Robin covering her eyes at the edge of the clearing. “Are you decent?” 

“What?” Neil asks, genuinely confused, looking down at himself and then back up at her. Then he realizes and laughs, letting the dress drop and puddle at his feet in a deep blue heap. “Yes, Robin, I’m quite decent,” he says, smirking at her when she opens her eyes and striking a pose. She rolls her eyes at him and comes the rest of the way into the clearing, eyeing their sad little fire with distaste and sitting down to try to coax it back to life. 

“I almost had a heart attack,” she says, stirring their little pot of soup and shuddering. “My soul nearly left my body.” 

“Honestly, Robin, I had hoped you thought better of me,” Neil says, stepping out of the circle of fabric and picking it up to fold it into a neat little pile before sitting it by his bag. “One must be ready to perform a costume change at a second's notice. The key is layering.” 

“Is it now?” Matt says, joining them from the underbrush with a red gown in one arm and Dan holding onto the other. “I wouldn’t know, I’m simply the getaway man.”

“See, Neil, why can’t you be like Dan? Change in the woods.” Robin gestures to Matt and Dan with the spoon she was using to stir the soup, flinging food everywhere. “Compromise Matt’s honor behind a tree. Where I cannot see it.” 

Matt goes slightly pink, but Dan just smiles and takes the dress from him to fold and place beside Neil’s. 

“First of all,” Neil starts, “I would never compromise Matt’s honor-”

“Thank you.”

“-You’re welcome. And second of all, I was wearing clothes underneath.” 

“Yes, but I didn’t know that.”

“Not my problem.” 

“You are the worst.”

“I’m aware.” 

“The soup is burning,” Dan cuts in, just as Renee materializes to Neil’s right. He doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. Renee is perhaps the only person who can manage to sneak up on him if she really wants to. She gives him a warm smile, and he nods at her in return. 

“I think it smells wonderful,” Renee says, and Robin jumps, spilling the soup she was trying to taste in her lap and cursing soundly. 

“Renee!” Matt exclaims, holding out his arms to her and enveloping her in a hug, which she returns, laughing softly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I saw you two days ago,” Renee reminds him as soon as he releases her. 

“I know,” he replies. “It was too long.” 

“What’s on fire?” Allison’s voice says, and then a sword is slashed and underbrush is severed, and Allison herself steps into the clearing, not in full uniform, but still as regal as always. 

“The soup,” Neil and Dan say at the same time, and Robin scowls.

“It is not,” she says, lifting the spoon to her mouth and taking a large mouthful. “It’s just-” she coughs , grimacing, and puts the spoon back. “It’s just a little singed is all.”

“How have you all survived this long?” Allison asks, shaking her head. Neil shrugs, and Matt just laughs. Dan moves to help Robin salvage at least some soup, but Neil suspects it's not edible anymore. 

“So,” Allison says conversationally, taking a seat on one of the logs and fixing her keen eyes on Neil, “Did you rob anyone today?”

“Oh, rob is such a naughty word,” Matt says, before Neil can reply, dropping into the seat next to her. “We never rob.” Neil scoffs and Matt just grins. “We simply borrow. And never give anything back.” 

“Yes, yes,” Allison says, flapping a hand around dismissively, “steal from the rich to give to the poor, we know. So what did you steal?”

It’s Neil’s turn to grin, feeling very self satisfied and accomplished. 

“We dressed up as fortune tellers and robbed a wealthy merchant’s caravan,” He says, and Allison gasps. 

“Did you wear the dress?”

“He did,” Dan replies, looking up at them with laughter in her eyes. “He looked absolutely stunning.” 

“Why, thank you,” Neil says, sweeping off his hat and bowing for them. 

“I missed it,” Allison says, dismayed, and Matt pats her arm. 

“By two minutes,” Robin says, lifting the spoon to her lips again but spitting it out as soon as it touches her mouth. “He undressed right in the clearing, for the whole world to see.” Allison cackles at that. Neil doesn’t bother defending himself again. Robin spits again into the grass. “This soup is distasteful.” 

“As are you,” Neil says, and she turns around to make a very rude gesture at him, which he counters with one of his own. 

“Neil,” Matt scolds, turning to cover Renee’s ears beside him and missing completely, so he ends up just holding her head. “There are pure souls here to witness your uncouth behavior.”

“There’s really just one,” Neil replies, flipping his hat in the air, to have something to do with his hands, and Renee laughs. Matt looks offended.

“Excuse you, I am an angel,” he says, and then Dan laughs and he turns his offended look on her. “Dan you wound me.” 

Renee gently extracts herself from Matt’s grip. Neil’s hat flips once, then twice in the air before landing squarely back in his hands. 

“Speaking of pure souls,” Allison says abruptly, “I heard that the prince is holding a tournament tomorrow.” 

Matt looks at her, confused. “How does that have anything to do with pure souls?”

“Oh it doesn't, quite the opposite actually.’ Allison pauses, sneaking a look at Neil that he doesn't like at all. “I also heard that the Monsters will be present.” 

Neil drops his hat. 

Renee notices. Allison notices. Dan and Matt notice. Robin does not notice, still occupied with the soup. 

Neil bends down swiftly to retrieve his hat and puts it safely back on head, trying to get himself into some semblance of composed and failing miserably. His thoughts skitter around at a thousand miles an hour, dragging his heartbeat after them and proceeding to make him very dizzy in a very short amount of time. 

“I thought they were still in London,” Matt says, and Neil silently thanks him, as his vocal chords are refusing to work. 

“They just got back,” Allison says, but Neil can barely hear her. 

They weren’t supposed to be back until that winter. Neil was so sure of it. Not that he’s been counting, but he has definitely been counting, year after year, month after month. 

Oh Saint, it’s been four years. 

Four years. 

“Neil,” Matt says, and his tone suggests it is not his first attempt at getting Neil’s attention. Neil blinks and looks at him. 

“I said, you weren’t planning on competing in the tournament, right?”

Neil blinks at him again. “Um.” 

“Of course not,” Dan says, looking at him sternly. “You would be recognized in an instant. And you’re not exactly Prince Luther’s favorite person.” 

Neil’s brain isn’t providing him with any coherent thoughts, so he latches onto the first thing he can. 

“Robin,” he says, and she looks up at him. “I need your name.” 

“Not this again,” Robin groans. 

“It worked wonderfully last time.” 

“No, last time, you lost me twenty pence and all of the respect of the Blackberry Inn owner.”

“Nonsense.” 

“Neil,” Dan says, “You’ll get caught.”

“I might.”

“Neil.” 

“Escaping has always been my specialty. I’ll be fine.” 

“I’ll be back up,” Matt offers, and Dan glares at him. 

“Why so eager, Neil?” Allison asks, sly as a fox. Renee smacks her arm gently. 

“I’ll be cheering you on,” Renee says, nudging Allison again before she can say anything else. “We both will.” 

Neil gives her a small smile, and he’s restless, so restless. 

Days are chained to his shoulders, they have been for so long that he got used to the weight, but within the span of a few simple moments, he remembers, and he can’t breathe. 

_Four years_ , he thinks. 

Then: _one day more._

+++

Andrew wanders the tournament grounds like a wraith, people parting for him like he has the plague and steering clear of his bored gaze. Those who are brave enough to approach him, he stares down until they leave. 

He doesn't want to be here. 

He escaped the royal box upon arrival, unwilling to sit and make small talk with the courtier Aaron brought back from London, and even more unwilling to endure his uncle’s smug silence. 

The tournament is a maze of offensively bright tents and tempting concessions. People mill around in groups and pairs, laughing and shouting and laughing some more. It’s so different from the whispering members of the court in London, with their elaborate costumes and petty smiles, and Andrew finds that he doesn’t like either version. 

None of it seems real. 

Andrew is half convinced that he’s living in a dream and he’s sick of it. He just wants to wake up, to see the sun. 

“Andrew!” a voice calls, but Andrew doesn't turn or acknowledge them. “Andrew,” the voice says, and then the person catches up with him and it’s Kevin, with his serious eyes and perpetual frown. He is still as tall as the last time Andrew saw him, if not taller, but he looks lighter, like he finally figured out how to let go of some things in the past four years. 

_Jesus Christ, four years._

“It’s Aaron,” Andrew says, completely deadpan. For a split second, Kevin hesitates, unsure, but then he scowls. 

“No it’s not.”

Andrew doesn’t dignify that with a response. 

“I thought you were supposed to get back this winter,” Kevin says, and Andrew keeps walking, Kevin falling in step next to him and it’s just like it was before Andrew left. 

“London was dull.” 

“Don’t say that,” Kevin protests. London is his first and only love, even though he has never been. 

They walk in silence for a few moments, not uncomfortably, and several people that they pass tip their hats at Kevin. Some even greet him with Sheriff. 

Andrew doesn’t ask, but Kevin tells him anyway. 

“Wymack retired,” he says. “He’s living with Abby now.” 

Somehow, this doesn’t surprise Andrew in the slightest. 

“Are you competing?” Kevin asks abruptly, and Andrew just gives him a look. “No, of course not. Anyway, just keep a lookout.” Kevin pauses, like it’s a secret. “Keep a look out for the Outlaw.” 

“The Outlaw,” Andrew repeats. That name is ridiculous, as is the fact that Kevin’s obsessions have not changed in the slightest. 

“Indeed,” Kevin says, determined. “I’m going to catch him this time.”

“Are you?” Andrew asks. 

“I am,” Kevin says, unwavering, then he brightens. “Robin!” he yells, much in the same way that he did to get Andrew’s attention. 

Andrew has no interest in making small talk, and he’s just about to make a quiet exit when the person Kevin called over stops in front of them. 

It’s Neil. 

It’s Neil.

It’s Neil.

Neil is standing in front of him, a black bandanna covering his hair and a bow slung over one shoulder, and he’s smiling, just like he used to, and Kevin just called him Robin, and he’s _taller than Andrew._

Andrew has to remind himself to keep breathing. 

“Hello,” Neil says, and Andrew hates him. He hates him so much. His voice sounds like the sunlight looks when it tumbles through the canopy and dances upon the forest floor. 

“Andrew,” Kevin says, but Andrew doesn't look at him. He can’t take his eyes off Neil, like if he were to turn away from even a moment, he would disappear. “I don’t think you’ve met each other. This is Robin Hood, he arrived a few years ago, right after you left. Robin, this is Andrew Minyard, Duke of Columbia.” 

Neil’s smile grows, wild amusement dancing in his eyes, and he sweeps into a bow, one arm tucked behind him and the other in front. 

Andrew fights the urge to smack him over the head. 

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Neil says, and then Andrew really is going to smack him, but a bell goes off before he can move. Neil straightens. “Well, that’s my cue.” He nods at Kevin and then taps two fingers to his temple in a little salute to Andrew. His smile is playful and dazzling, and _those eyes_. Then he says, “Wish me luck,” and he’s gone. 

Andrew doesn’t know what just happened. 

Before Kevin can say anything else, Andrew turns on a heel and walks away, pushing blindly through the throngs of people and trying not to trip over his own pulse as it thunders through his veins. 

He’s half convinced that he’s dreaming. 

Oh, how he hopes he’s not dreaming. 

Oh, how he hates to hope. 

Another bell chimes, and the tournament begins. 

+++

Neil pulls his bow back, willing his hands to stop shaking and taking a deep breath. On the exhale, he releases the bow string, and the arrow sings through the air, landing an inch away from the center of the target. 

The man beside him whistles, but Neil doesn’t acknowledge him. 

He needs to get it together. 

He just saw Andrew, and Andrew didn’t say a word to him- which doesn’t bother Neil in the slightest, he would sit in silence with Andrew forever if he had to- but Neil also finds that he can’t quite remember the sound of Andrew’s voice. 

It’s a terrifying thought. 

When his mother died, the first part of her that he truly forgot was her voice. It was agony, but Andrew isn’t dead, he’s here, and Neil needs to win this tournament so he can drag Andrew away and hear him say something, anything, so he can remember the exact cadence of his breath, the shape of his silence and the weight of his words. 

So Neil takes another deep breath, raises his bow, and let's go on the exhale.

The arrow hits an inch away. Again. 

“Your form is sloppy,” Kevin says, appearing next to him without much warning. Neil raises his eyebrows. 

“By all means,” he says, stepping aside. “Show me how it’s done.” 

Kevin scoffs at him, then squints at the distant target like analyzing it will help him aim. He takes his time squaring his feet and angling his shoulders just so, and only when he is properly satisfied does he raise his own bow taking a careful moment to check his angles there. 

Neil barely refrains from rolling his eyes. 

To Kevin, precision and form is everything. He competes against himself and himself alone, using theory and wind factors and angles to aim perfectly. Archery is simply a formula to him, and he is very, very good at using it, developing it. 

It is nothing of the sort to Neil. 

He doesn’t have time to check his angles once, let alone twice or three times when he’s in the middle of the woods, pursuing or being pursued. Everything is a split second decision, aiming with barely a glance and shooting with a hairsbreadth precision. Neil’s love for archery is in the thrill, in the blink-or-you-miss-it shots. 

Of course, Kevin doesn’t know that. At least not all of it. 

Finally, Kevin releases his arrow, and Neil watches as it lands closer than Neil’s first two, but still not in the middle. Kevin looks at for a moment, then nods, like he’s accepting it and moving on. 

He turns back to Neil. “It’s all in the placement relative to the target. Posture helps too.” 

Neil can feel him gearing up for a full on archery lesson, so he does the only thing he knows will shut Kevin up. Without moving from his angled position, he raises his bow, glancing at the target at the very last second and releasing within the same moment.

Kevin does a double take as the arrow lands almost on top of his own, Neil can see them quivering from where he stands. He smirks.

“Beginner’s luck,” he says to Kevin. 

“You are literally not a beginner,” Kevin says, put out.

Neil shrugs. “If you say so.” 

The rest of the tournament passes in much the same manner, Kevin taking perfect shot after perfect shot as Neil counters with impossible shot after impossible shot. They duel it out, their competition shirking to only themselves, while Neil laughs and Kevin scowls. 

Eventually, it’s down to just the two of them. 

Kevin shoots first; he hits the bullseye.

Neil goes second, and he can practically feel the crowd holding its breath. He inhales, picturing a bird or a wayward leaf, and then he lets the arrow fly. 

It severs Kevin’s in two. 

Neil smiles, and then the roar of the crowd crashes over him, and this is what he lives for, breathes for. Not the applause, but the satisfaction in the game, the tightness in his chest that tells him he made it. 

At least, it's mostly what he lives for. 

Neil holds out a hand for Kevin to shake, but Kevin stares at the target for a moment more, then he turns to Neil and he has a tiny, fierce smile fixed in place. 

For a moment, Neil recalls the Kevin who would run himself to the ground before he let anyone else win. That Kevin was never happy with himself, or anyone around him, for that matter. That Kevin is a distant memory. 

"You're still sloppy," Kevin says as he shakes Neil's hand, but he doesn't sound annoyed. There's pride in his voice that Neil feels in his chest, racing through his fingertips like a second heartbeat. 

"Sure, Kevin," Neil says. 

"We have a winner!" The announcer shouts, and suddenly, Neil is being swept along, guided to the royal box where he is planted directly in front of Prince Luther. 

Neil bows because he has to. He makes it as mocking as he can possibly manage. 

"Rise," Luther says, and Neil does, eyeing the box and, to his surprise, finding both twins present. 

Aaron spares him and single glance before turning back to the noblewoman beside him, but Andrew stares him down. Neil meets his gaze, daring him to be the first to look away. He isn’t, but that’s just because Neil has to look at Luther when he’s being addressed. 

“What’s your name boy?” Luther asks, without getting up from his gilded seat. 

Neil fights back a sneer and lifts his head high. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Renee, with Allison at her shoulder in her full knight’s uniform. Dan is standing with them, and Neil knows that Matt isn’t far away. 

Something like resolve settles in his stomach, and when he catches Andrew’s eye again, Andrew raises his eyebrows at him like he can see the idea taking root in his head. 

Neil can’t help it. He smiles. And it is not a nice smile. After all, he has always been an instigator at heart. 

“My name,” he says, loud and clear, “is Neil Josten, or as you like to call me, the Outlaw.” 

There is a beat of complete silence, and then the crowd erupts, talking and moving all at once, some trying to back away from him while others try to get a better look. Luther stands and raises his hands for silence, but it takes a moment to get there. 

“Now why,” Luther says, his voice dangerous, “would you confess to such a thing? In front of your king no less, and in the middle of a crowd. You have walked right into my hands.” 

“First of all, you are not my king,” Neil says, and several people gasp. “King Nicky is my sovereign. You are but an impostor sitting in his place while he is away.” Someone shouts _long live King Nicky._ Neil thinks maybe it was Matt. “I would sooner submit to a dog than bow to you. You do not deserve the crown on your head, nor do you deserve the support of these people, so.” Neil spreads his arms wide, a challenge, a dare. “By all means, try to arrest me. I’m standing right here.” 

“Guards!” Luther shouts, and then several things happen at once. 

A horn blows, a hunter's horn, sharp and mournful, it echoes through the air. 

The royal guards advance, shoving protesting people out of the way as the crowd starts to panic. Neil spins and disappears into the throng before they can reach him. 

Then, a nearby tent catches fire, and everything truly, finally dissolves into chaos. 

+++

Andrew watches with vague interest and barely concealed amusement as Neil mouths off to Luther, he isn’t even remotely surprised when Neil sets the stage for a riot and then proceeds to disappear. 

Neil has always been so very good at starting fights, but he seems almost incapable of finishing them. 

Andrew doesn't move as the panic escalates around them. Aaron has fled somewhere with his lady love, and Luther is yelling threats to no one in particular, but Andrew is the eye of the storm, untouched. 

His eyes flick to the side just in time to watch tongues of fire leap from one tent to the next, devouring everything in its path. Two guards swoop in to escort Luther to safety, and he goes loudly, still yelling at them to _find him_. No one even spares Andrew a glance. 

Not a second after Luther is out of sight, there is a heavy thud on the roof of the royal box, causing petals to shiver free from the decorative garlands hanging off almost every available surface and rain down on Andrew like confetti. He doesn't move to brush them off his shoulders, but he turns just in time to find Neil swing down from the roof and land on the railing before hopping down to stand right in front of Andrew. 

Neil smiles at him, and it’s like a crack of lightning, brilliant and blinding, and once again, Andrew cannot breathe. 

Neil steps closer, reaching out with one hand, and Andrew has to tip his head up ever so slightly to continue looking him in the eyes, the rest of his body going tense and still. 

“You have something in your hair,” Neil says, so softly, pulling his hand back without touching Andrew at all, a delicate white petal pinched between two fingers. An involuntary shiver dances up Andrew’s spine, pushing the breath back out of his lungs. He glares at Neil.

“What the fuck, Josten?” he asks, and Neil just laughs, spinning around Andrew and heading for the back of the box. 

He sweeps aside the curtain that leads to the back stairs with a flourish, turning back to Andrew with that same, wild amusement in his eyes. “Care to join me?” 

Andrew doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't, settling for following Neil out of the royal box. He thinks it is quite appropriate, as he would probably follow Neil anywhere. 

That thought alone is about as unsettling as they come. 

Right behind the tent, a horse is tethered, waiting for them. Neil walks over and swings himself up in one smooth motion, leaning over to offer Andrew a hand. 

Andrew stares at him for a moment, arrested. The sunlight is streaming through the trees, creating a sort of halo around Neil's frame, and it's only sort of breathtaking. Andrew can't stand him.

"Well?" Neil asks. "Are you coming or not?" 

Andrew sighs deeply, then takes his hand and allows himself to be pulled up behind Neil.

“Okay?” Neil asks as Andrew slips his arms around Neil’s waist to steady himself. Andrew doesn't know how to respond to that question either, so he settles for blowing in Neil’s ear, which Neil takes as a yes. 

Andrew spares one glance to the tournament grounds as they shrink behind them, and the last thing that he sees is the royal box going up in flames as they pass into the forest and the trees swallow them whole. It’s far too satisfying. 

Neil guides them expertly through the woods, putting as much distance between them and the guards as possible. For a moment, the only sound is that of the horse's hoof beats and their breath echoing back at them. It feels timeless and infinite and elastic, like that moment could stretch on forever, if not for the jealousy of time itself. 

Andrew tries to focus on something, anything to prove to him that this is real, like the texture of Neil’s shirt, or the birdsong abruptly cutting off as they crash through the underbrush, but somehow, with each detail he picks out, he becomes more and more unsure. He closes his eyes and immediately forgets what color Neil is wearing. Brambles reach desperately for his legs, but he barely feels a thing. By the time Neil pulls them to a stop, Andrew doesn't want to move, for fear of waking up in his dark, sprawling room in London, like none of this ever happened. 

He’s going to wake up. He always does. 

It isn’t real. It never is. 

Neil dismounts first, and Andrew holds his breath. Neil offers a hand to him again, which he ignores, choosing to let out the air in his lungs slowly, like if he makes one wrong move, everything will shatter, and he dismounts on his own. 

As soon as his feet hit solid ground, however, the horse side steps, bumping into him just enough to send him off balance, but then Neil is there, steadying him with both hands and retracting them just as quickly. Neil doesn't step out of his space. 

“Am I going to wake up?” 

Only when Neil tips his head ever so slightly to the side, does Andrew realize that he said that out loud. 

“You’re already awake,” Neil says, and Andrew wants to reach out, to prove him right, maybe to prove him wrong. He doesn't.

“I never can tell,” says Andrew, and it comes out as a whisper. 

At that, Neil looks, just for a moment, like he’s holding the world’s sorrow on the slope of his shoulders, in the curve of his spine. 

He reaches out and takes Andrew’s hand, pressing Andrew’s fingers to the pulse in his neck. It stutters and trips like a stream over the rocky shallows, like a dove learning to fly. 

“I am not a hallucination,” Neil says, not letting go of his hand. 

“You are a pipe dream,” Andrew replies. Neil laughs and Andrew moves his hand so he can drag it up from Neil’s collarbone to the nape of his neck, where he promptly gets rid of the bandanna Neil is wearing, letting Neil’s auburn curls tumble free. Andrew still does not remove his hand. 

“That much, huh?” Neil says, and when Andrew doesn't reply, he smiles, but it's not his normal smile, sharp and mischievous; it’s warm and soft and entirely too intimate. Just for Andrew. “You missed me,” Neil accuses. 

“No, I didn’t,” Andrew says immediately, instinctively, shaking his head. This time, when Neil laughs, Andrew finds his dimple on one cheek, and god, Andrew missed him. 

“Come on,” Neil says, stepping out of Andrew’s space and beckoning with a tilt of his head. “I want to show you something.” 

Andrew follows him without hesitation. 

They don’t go very far, just up a path that the horse would not have been able to traverse, and within a few minutes, the trees change from oak and maple to a grove of willows. The sun is brighter here, almost blinding, but then Neil steps through the nearest curtain of willow branches, Andrew close behind him, and suddenly the light is thinned and spun and fine as gold, delicate as spider silk as it shoots through the leaves. 

Neil breaks the silence first. “Andrew?” he says, and Andrew thinks of the first time Neil said his name, and the second, and the third, and the hundredth, and he adds it to the collection. He realizes that his memory may not be as perfect as he thought it was because Neil’s voice in his head doesn’t even come close to the real thing. “Can you say something?”

Andrew takes in the complicated look on Neil’s face. “What?”

“Anything.” Andrew raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I just-” Neil makes an aborted movement with his hands before settling with waving them around vaguely. “I want to hear you say something.” 

Andrew catches one of Neil’s hands in his own, and then another, threading their fingers together. “You’re an idiot.”

Neil smiles at him. “I know.”

“You have a death wish.” Andrew pushes on Neil’s hands without letting go, once, twice, before Neil gets the hint and starts walking backwards. 

“I don’t.” They step slowly together, swaying ever so slightly, like a sort of dance, hands intertwined and bodies maintaining a scant few inches between them.

“You’re taller.” Neil ducks his head a little, and Andrew finds that he quite likes the view of Neil’s eyelashes fanning across his cheekbones from his lower angle. 

Neil rubs a thumb over Andrew’s knuckles, and when he looks back up his mouth is smug, his eyes are dancing. “I am.”

Andrew squeezes his hands in retaliation. “I hate you.”

Neil's smile turns far too soft for those words to warrant. “I know,” he says, and Andrew wants. 

He just wants. 

Eventually, they reach the trunk of the willow, and Andrew crowds Neil up against it, pressing their legs together, but maintaining space with their hands clasped between them. Neil licks his lips and Andrew’s eyes follow the movement. “How was London?” Neil asks, and his voice is breathless, raw. 

Andrew lifts Neil’s hands and guides them so that they can rest on his shoulders. “I hated it,” he replies, and when Neil’s hands don’t move from where he placed them, he takes his own and rests them on Neil’s waist. Neil shivers, and the rest goes unsaid, but based on the way Neil smiles, soft and maybe a little shy, he heard it anyway. _I hated it because you weren’t there._

“You hated it,” Neil repeats, his voice just as soft as his smile. Andrew squeezes his waist. 

“Yes or no, Neil.” Coming from Andrew, it doesn't sound like a question, but it is. 

“Yes,” Neil breathes, and then Andrew presses forward the last few inches and kisses him. 

The previous four years condense in the space of an instant, placed carefully, quietly in the past, and suddenly, Andrew knows with startling clarity that he is not dreaming. 

Even though Neil told him he wasn't, even though it wasn't at all logical, even though he knew, objectively, that he couldn't be, he doesn't really believe it until that moment. 

All of a sudden, Andrew needs to open his eyes. He needs to see Neil in front of him, so he pulls back. Neil follows him, chasing his mouth and making a tiny, sad noise when Andrew doesn't come back. 

"Drew?" He whispers. His eyes are dilated and fathomless, and there is a flush across his cheeks like watercolor, and Andrew can't help it. He leans in a presses a kiss to Neil’s mouth, and then one to his jaw, and then he moves down and brushes his lips against Neil’s collarbone and finds that he can’t go any farther, so he stands there with his face hidden in the crook of Neil’s neck, and he breathes, and breathes, and breathes. 

Eventually, Neil cards a hand through Andrew’s hair, pressing a kiss to Andrew’s temple, and Andrew finally, finally allows himself to think, to admit it to himself. 

_I missed him_ , Andrew thinks, and then he holds Neil tighter and thinks, _I’m home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Funny story, I read Robin Hood the book in middle school, and I absolutely hated it. I hated it so much. It was in old English and I could barely understand it and it was the worst. Maid Marian wasn't even in it, unless I just missed that part, which is entirely possible, but I love the Disney movie, so of course my brain came up with this. I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think, i'm curious. :)


End file.
